


The Naked Truth

by CAPSING



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (Unfortunately I'm Being Serious), (but not really?), Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe, Dead Kittens, Drug Abuse, Every 'ism' Under the Sun, Gore, Graphic Animal Abuse, Graphic Child Abuse, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Suicide, Translation Available, Translation in Vietnamese, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade is not a cat person. But maybe he'll make an exception to get into some cute guy's pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part A

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennkoad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pennkoad).



> Translation to Vietnamese available [here](https://morinohana.wordpress.com/m%E1%BB%A5c-l%E1%BB%A5c-fanfic/fanfic-dichspideypool-the-naked-truth/), thanks to the wonderful [Ti_amo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ti_amo/pseuds/Ti_amo)! ♥  
> *   
> This story was written for Pennkoad as part of the Spideypool July Secret Santa Gift Exchange of 2014.
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!  
> When I tag "Homophobia / Offensive Language" I mean it, and I wouldn't want anyone exposed to content that hurts them in any way.
> 
> The story contains a graphic murder of a kitten. For those of you who'd rather skip it, it is all marked in italics. The author herself strongly opposes killing kittens or any other animal.
> 
> Verse-wise, everything in this AU is like the comic-verse – only Peter isn't Spider-Man. Peter is in his late twenties, Wade is in his mid-thirties.
> 
> [Somewhere in the far off future, a side-story explaining why Peter isn't Spider-Man and some of his actions in this story would be posted, too.]
> 
> Special Thanks to my BFFs, [Anna](http://pinkeyedrabbbit.tumblr.com) and [Matt](http://fuctchecker.tumblr.com).  
> Both listened to hours-long rants, cheered me on and brainstormed with me until I could resolve the plot-holes.  
> Anna is my official Catvisior and inspiration. Without her, this story would've been 80% shorter.

Wade Wilson is definitely not a cat person.

Wade's not a dog person, either, nor a hamster person or a bunny person or an iguana person.

The whole concept of a pet seems void (and hey, he's got Bob, that sort of counts), too much of a commitment and effort for a guy like him. Not to mention his erratic schedule and his long away-missions.

(Wade had a plant, once, in his kitchen.  It took him two months to notice it shriveled and died because he forgot it needed water to keep.)  

He has some cockroaches in different corners of the apartment, and a small commune under the sink. In times he feels particularly kind he leaves them some leftovers (usually expired ones from the fridge that already started developing new life forms upon them).

So pets. Cats. Not his thing.

(But Wade also does things he doesn't quite like, if he's presented with the right incentive.)

 

It's a Monday when Wade strolls aimlessly around the streets of New-York. He went out to do something, he's sure – it's not a hit because he's in his civvies – but something shiny caught his eye and from there his memory is rather fuzzy. He's just wandering about, taking in the unfamiliar area – the open dumpsters that smell like rotten food and decay, the litter peppering the road, the long cracks in the concrete of the buildings and the pavement both.

Nothing good ever happens on Mondays, he muses. There were even songs written about how lame it is. No one ever bashed Tuesdays. Wednesday got a likeable namesake in a children cartoon. Thursdays are named after the hunkiest Asgardian (Wade would let him come more than just once a week). Mondays, however –

A sudden commotion reaches his ears. It's faint at first, but grows louder with each and every stride.

Having nothing better to do and sensing violence at close proximity – he heads towards it, mood perking. Street fights are better entertainment than anything the media can offer (Bea Arthur not included).

Not long after, a turn left reveals the source of the noise – a bunch of mini-hoodlums (some would call them kids), standing in a semi-circle around something Wade can't see. They laugh in the mean way kids do, an extraction of mockery mixed with the joy of causing others pain.

Kids can be such little shitheads.

 

"Look at this thing! Dude, talk about _ugly_ ," says one of them, a gangly ginger kid, to the vocal encouragement of his friends – which sounds similar to a pack of hyenas on crack.

"It'll be putting it out of its misery, really." He says as he picks up a heavy gray brick. His tone suggests the deed is not, in fact, a self-sacrificing performance of euthanasia.

"Man, no wonder everyone say you gingers have no souls."

 The kid turns, an obvious violent retort on his lips. It doesn't take any active-intimidation out of Wade to make the boy shriek like Wade just gutted his parents in front of him and offered him to use their intestines to make matching friendship bracelets. The brick falls out of the kid's hand as he stumbles backwards.  Wade thinks this is his chance to bestow some sage advice upon today's youth.

"Obviously if you want to put someone out their misery, as you've said, you shoot it between the eyes. It's the humane thing to do."

"F-fuck off, you freak!" The kid tries to act all brave around his buddies, but the perspiration on his brow and the dots that act as his pupils tell a different story.

Wade frowns, while the group slowly retrogrades.

"You really shouldn't take that tone with your elders, young man. I'll let you know – " He pulls off his hat, grinning, "– that's really impolite."

That does the trick, and Wade watched as the phalanx scatter off with whiny cries.

"Kids nowadays. Really, now."

He turns to look at the pavement and stares.

 

It's supposed to be some sort of life form, he's sure, but he's never seen anything quite like it. It's like a ragged sack of flesh, wrinkled and pink, with bits sticking out peculiarly. The skin seems torn at some places, which explains why it's bloody, and small stones and pebbles surround the pathetic form.

Wade sits back on his hunches and pokes it with his finger.

He pokes harder, and the thing jerks slightly and emits a small, sorry sound.

Yellow eyes blink open, but the meat sack hasn't moved. It just repeats the sound again, looking at Wade. 

Wade discusses the options with his boxes, so he's distracted before he notices something is touching his finger. He guesses it's the head, and the side of it is pressed to Wade's index finger, leaning on it heavily, like it can't hold by itself.

He moves the finger.

There's a thud as the head drops against the pavement.

The eyes slid shut.

 

"I'm not taking you with me, Flubber." He tells it as he stands up. "Not in my agenda, I'm penciled in for the next week, sorry, no can do."

It doesn't move.

"Bye now, tell Janice I said hey."

He walks off.

*

Naturally, this is how he finds himself an hour later, sitting in a veterinary clinic and waiting for his turn. To his right there's a prissy looking woman; the small fluffy critter in her handbag yips at Wade in a very annoying way. To his left there's a ferret curled around an old man's neck like a living scarf; the white fur makes an interesting contrast against the dark bare skin.

He is about 37% sure he had something better to do, rather than this.

 

Behind the closed door of the treatment room, there's yowling and hissing and screams of terror – before an ominous silence settles in the air. A few minutes later, a tall redhead with gorgeous long legs that just go on and on steps out, holding a large plastic box with her manicured hand.

"Mr. Wilson?" The man at the reception desk calls. "You're next."

Wade nods, getting up, meat sack secured in his arms. He ignores the unpleasant smells of health establishments ( _-bleachandvomithesnevergettingoutandalcoholanddisinfectantand-_ ) and walks through the door.

 

"Sorry, I'll be with you in a minute, I just –" The veterinarian is a slim man, dressed casually with plain shirt and jeans under a white medical robe – which is speckled with droplets of blood.

"– just have to clean this up, first."

'This' is a nasty, long bleeding gash on his nicely toned forearm. Wade's eyes travel around the small clinic room – the first one he came across after forty minutes of loitering around the unfamiliar neighbourhood.

There's a square metal desk (Wade's familiar with those, all up and personal) in the center, a solid barrier separating Wade and the vet. Along the walls framed 'Thank You' letters hang, featuring pictures of happy dogs, bored cats and even once fancy-looking pigeon. The wooden cabinets are white with some chapping paint, but the place is relatively clean (better than most government facilities, for sure).

 

"Yes, Mr. Wilson, how can I hel- **_Jesus_**." Wade snaps back into focus, but the vet's not looking at his face - his eyes are intent on his chest. The doctor quickly walks around the table and reaches out to gently ease the animal from Wade's arms.

"What happened?"

He asks the question but doesn't spare a glance at Wade as he carefully places his new patient on the table, quickly assembling a strange medical assortment, pulled from everywhere around the room. He plunges the stethoscope into his ears and motions to Wade to be quiet before he even has a chance to explain. Wade's mouth hangs open during the hiatus, and it takes about a minute before the vet nods for him to talk.

"Bunch of kids were picking on it on the street. It doesn't look too healthy, y'know, figured it may need some fixing. It looks like a plucked turkey."

Still fixated on the animal, the vet prods its belly with his hands ( _and what lovely fingers you have there you can poke my tummy any day_ ), pulls open the eyelids to flash a light at them, pries open the teeth. He gently touches each leg, moving it as if he's testing a robotic arm prototype – and then the tail. He cleans the blood off with a damp cloth, revealing rather unharmed skin bellow the grime.

He pulls out a fluffy towel from a drawer, and warps the animal in it, before taking the same antiseptic he used on himself to clean the wounds upon its skin.

All the while Wade is blabbering, though he's not sure what – he have never seen a doctor doing any good, but this guy seems to be pretty decent, and doesn't snap at him to shut the hell up.

 

Wade doesn't know how long it takes before the man finally looks up.

He has stunning eyes behind awfully framed glasses. 

Wade recoils a bit inside.

 

For no explicable reason, the man smiles brightly at him. His teeth look like they were stolen from a Colgate ad.

Wade's suspicion rears up its massive head, like a slumbering dragon who just heard a hobbit trying to steal from his hoard. Past experience taught him that any encounter with smiling-medical-personnel doesn't bode well for him.

"Considering everything she's been though, she seems to be pretty okay. No internal bleeding, nothing broken, all wounds pretty superficial so she doesn't need stitches, fortunately."

"She?" seems like the only thing he could say.

"Yes. It's not a skin condition, Mr. Wilson. She's a Sphynx."

Wade quirks a nonexistent eyebrow.

"Last Sphinx I heard of came with some boobies."

"A Sphynx cat. They're born that way."

"Ugly?"

It's thanks to their extended eye-contact the Wade notices a miniscule change, as something in the vet's eyes hardens, barely concealed behind his outdated glasses.

"Animals are _never_ ugly." He says with conviction. "Sphynx cats are known to have an excellent temperament, and they're very clever." He composes himself somewhat, and his expression softens.

"Anyway, I'm glad you brought her here. Poor thing."

He pets the pink head. "She probably would've died if you haven't intervened. Even if she did manage to get away from those awful kids, Sphynx cats can't survive on their own – it's death by either heatstroke or hypothermia."

"Small wonder," Wade mutters, but the vet doesn't seem to hear him.

"Do you plan on keeping her?" he asks, looking at Wade. "You can bring her to a shelter, but they're just so sensitive." He scratches behind her ears. "I'm sure someone is looking for her. No one would just throw such a sweetheart away." His voice takes a disgusting turn to the tunes people use as they talk to babies, and Wade cringes as the vet presses a kiss on the top of her bald head. This thing screams ' _cooties!_ ' in at least eight different languages.

 

The cat opens her eyes and mewls.

Wade is going to refuse. He really has no place for a cat, no time to buy it food and give it water and take it out for walks. He looks at the veterinarian's face, filled with resolution, and tells him just that.

 

The vet releases a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"Thank you." The vet smiles at Wade like he just offered him one of his kidneys out of the goodness of his heart. "This line of work can be pretty rough sometimes, you know. Too many people just dump their animals on whoever they can. I'll do my best to locate the owner. I'm sure it'll take a week tops, Mr. Wilson."

"It's Wade." He answers, dumbfounded, because hearing 'Mr. Wilson' spoken repeatedly brings too many unpleasant memories about his father.

"Nice to meet you, Wade. I'm Dr. Peter Parker."

He holds his hand out, and Wade takes a moment before shaking it. He doesn't recall the last time he shook someone's hand without his gloves on. He considers their texture and concludes that the guy must use some sort of cream to counter the dryness caused to his skin by the disinfectant his work obliges him to use, making it so smooth.

That, or that the guy faps so frequently that whichever moisturizer he uses integrated into his epidermis.

 

Apparently something short-circuited in Wade's brain – again, why was he even keeping it, letting it take all that space in his head – and he listens to Dr. Parker as he recites a lengthy CAT101 explanation, while giving the cat fluids. The only intermissions are when he stops to croon at her, for being such a good, brave girl.

 

No one ever gave Wade any praise while they poked needles at him.

 

Wade had many low points in his life, and he's sure he hasn't achieved his personal rock bottom yet, but he never stooped as low as to be jealous of a cat. He's not going to start it now.

Even if said cat is the main attraction of a really, really nice looking guy. With nice subtle veins spread between his elegant knuckles. That belongs to a nice, soft hand.

 

Dr. Parker refuses to take his money, telling him he'll settle it with the owner when he'll find them. He gives Wade the cat packed in a cardboard box (" – temporary cat carrier, you won't be needing a plastic one –"), a few cans of canned cat-food (" – with high calorie count, they'll be good for her –"), and his business card, scribbling something on the back.

"That's the number of a pet store nearby who does deliveries, so you can get the basic things until we'll find the owner." He points to one of the numbers. "And that's my personal number, in case anything happens – if she won't eat anything in the next twenty-four hours, if she's throwing up or has blood in her excrement – call me, at any hour."

 

 

And that's how Wade stumbles back home with a disfigured version of a feline and the first phone number he's gotten in the last seven years.

*

The keys clatter against the counter as Wade slams the door of his apartment behind him.

He places the box next to the couch in the living room, opening it after throwing off his hat and towing off his shoes. The cat chooses to remain still inside the box, not eager to leave it.

Cursing, he picks the phone to place an order at the pet store, reading off a list (which isn't dissimilar to a ransom demand, considering the sheer amount of details and specifications) the receptionist wrote for him. Wade boggles as the cheerful woman tells him the total amount of his order, but waves it off – he'll just charge the owner triple of that when he gives them the menace back.

He settles to watch TV for a while. The cat keeps to her cardboard asylum.

 

The delivery guy arrives after a couple of hours, and scurries off before Wade can give him his tip. He sets the litter box in the bathroom since it already smells, and fills the water and food dishes. The stench of the canned cat food fills his kitchen like a newfound toxin, a grey paste even the cockroaches would avoid if they value their short lives.

Time passes and the cat still hasn't moved. Wade throws her glances once in a while, but she hasn't dropped dead yet. Not after he showers, not after dinner, not after he nudges the box with his foot.

He strips and goes to bed, shutting the door.

 

It’s then the yowling starts.

Behind the thin oak board, the cat screams bloody murder (Wade should know).

He gets up and opens the door.

The cat looks at him.

"Well?"

The cat doesn’t move. He moves out of the door way, clearing the way – but she sits in place, regarding the dark room, her scrunched face impassive and blank.

She waits until after he closes the door and settles under the covers to start her shit again.

Wade really doesn’t have the patience for this. He grabs his gun - already loaded - and switches the safety off with his thumb. He slams the door open and cocks the gun at the cat.

Her big amber eyes stare up at him.

"Listen, Wrinkle-bags," he growls. "You give me this shit _one more time_ , and no fancy-shmancy vet is gonna be able to tell you apart from all the lead I'll pump into your sorry ass."

The cat gets up.

She steps forwards– and rubs her head determinedly against Wade's bare calf. She starts emitting a strange rattling sound, turns around, and plasters herself against him again, her nude skin warm.

Wade is still annoyed, but it's somewhat subdued. He's not sure what makes his anger slowly seep away as he looks down at the cat, who twirls between his legs in an 8-shaped orbit. He lowers his gun tries to push her off with his foot, but she just keeps coming back, as if his legs are the best thing she ever came across.

"I'm gonna go inside now. You either stay in or you stay out, because the next time you make me get up would be your last. And In any case, you're not getting on the bed."

 

The pest needs to learn some boundaries.

*

Wade wakes up to a funny feeling tickling his face. He opens his eyes to find half of them covered with an ass. And not the one he'd like to wake up to.

He bolts upwards, gun in hand – but the little nuisance already slipped out of the room. Gritting his teeth, he heads to the bathroom first, then to the kitchen, losing the gun along the way.

Wade tries to fill himself a glass of water when the cat leaps out of nowhere, dropping onto the counter and pushing her way to the tap, licking at the stream eagerly and filling his cup with cat-spittle.

This is weird.

He scratches his balls and picks up his cell.

Peter has made an offer, and Wade is going to abuse the fuck out of this privilege.  

 

"Hello?"

"She's drinking out of the sink."

"Sorry," Peter says, sounding confused, "who is this?"

"Shit. I mean. Hey. It's Wade. The guy – "

"The guy with the Sphynx, yeah. How are you doing, Wade? Is everything okay?"

Peter sounds so friendly at seven AM. Wade can't even tell the salt from the sugar at this ungodly hour (but he did get to challenge his palate on several occasions thanks to that). Peter must be one of those annoying 'people persons'. Or a morning person. Or even – god forbid – _both_.

 

"She's drinking from the tap."

Peter laughs. "Really? How cute!"

Wade doesn’t see what's cute in that. Saliva swirls around in the glass in his left hand.

"I thought they're supposed to drink from their pet dishes. Like civilized animals."

"Some cats don't like to drink still water. If you don’t want her jumping every time you open a tap around the house, you could try buying her a little fountain."

"A fountain." Wade's pretty sure there's a joke he's missing here. Made on his account, not just the bank one.

"The small ones those Zen people keep for Karma or inner peace? Cats love those. You can get one from a pet store, but they cost almost twice as much, for no reason."

"There's always the toilet."

Peter laughs, mistaking Wade's intent for humor.

"It's just a week and she'll be out of your hair –" (Wade passes an opportune moment to mention he's bald) "– I've already contacted other vets in the neighbourhood to check if one of their patients was reported missing, and some shelters, too. I'm sure someone would contact me soon." His voice takes a warm note. "I know it's a hassle, but someone is out there, missing their cat. She probably misses them as well. You're doing such a good thing, Wade."

Wade definitely doesn't feel embarrassed at the sudden praise.

"They better contact you fast if they want to have Garfield's sickly cousin back in one piece. I woke up this morning to a faceful of pussy-booty."

Peter laughs like Wade is the most hilarious person to ever hold a conversation over the phone with him (if third time's the charm, Wade must be a leprechaun by now).

There are muffled noises in the other side of the line, and Peter laughter dies out.

"Sorry Wade, I gotta go. I'll keep you posted, okay? Hang in there."

Wade grunts and hangs up.

 

That night, there is a silly hippy fountain on the kitchen counter, next to his broken coffee machine. It's a ceramic monstrosity shaped like a wooden stump, with two little lovebirds cuddling on the top, just above the slit from which the water pours out in their endless cycle. The cat looks at him, smug, sitting next to it while he eats his dinner.

"Shut up, Shunra."

*

Wade is back home late the day after, having spent most of it beating some low-lives who owed someone cash. He didn't really need the money, but the damn cat was getting on his nerves and he's trying his best to pull through this shitty week without having to explain to some Bambi-eyed-vet how the cat died of asphyxiation. With her intestines around her shriveled neck.

It's not like something's ever going to happen between them. It's not like it was nice to start the day with a conversation about the owner-search – with the sound of Peter's laughter and praise about Wade's freshly purchased water fountain.

Punching someone (and getting stabbed in return) was just what he needed. To feel his blood boiling, a person's teeth loosening under Wade's slamming fist, the sting of bursting blood vessels and the burn of his muscles in their effort to keep up.

(Got some nice pocket money as well, with the promise of future business. Always good to be in friendly terms with the Italians.)

Wade throws his bloody garments carelessly around. He can't spot the cat anywhere, but then again, the apartment is completely dark. He briefly considers taking a shower, but rejects it in favor of some REM – just to get to tomorrow quicker. There's a bone in his left arm that needs time to glue itself back together, and some cracked digits that wouldn't mind some rest.

Not bothering with the lights, he walks in the familiar layout and into his room, throws the blanket aside and drops himself on the bed.

There is an odd, disturbing crunching sound. Something feels wrong and gross against his skin. He grudgingly picks himself up and turns on the small lamp on the nightstand.

 

To find himself dipped within a cockroach massacre field.

 

The bed is lined with scores of roaches, who have all been carefully hidden under the blanket. There are five on his pillow. If he had a magnifying glass to use, he's sure the faces revealed under it would speak of unimaginable horrors.

 

He really, really wants to kill the cat right now. If she was within reach, he probably would've. But he's still not sure where she is.

He hasn't even realised he picked the phone and called until he hears a familiar (albeit slightly hoarse) voice in his ear.

"Wade? What's wrong?" Peter says drowsily.

Wade doesn't care it's the middle of the night (some people would consider 03:52 to be a very early morning). He's seething.

"My bed is filled with cockroaches."

"… An exterminator sounds like a good option, " there's an edge to the words, "there's this funny thing called the intern– "

"The roaches aren't my current pest-problem. _She_ filled my bed with cockroaches' corpses." He pauses. "I think it's some sort of a threat."

There's a short silence before Peter laughs, as he always does. Maybe Wade overestimated him. Aren't vets like dentists, really? Rejects of the medical world? Not qualified to cut up real sentient humans? The sloppy-seconds of the less cognitively gifted psychos?

Why does he keep laughing at every conversation?

 

"It means she likes you."

"Do enlighten me, _Doctor_. Can't wait to hear this one."

"She brought you back her prey. She knew this is where you will be, this is your lair – nothing smells more of you than your bed. She hunted all day and brought everything for you to eat. She shared everything. It's plenty of effort to hunt, you know." 

Wade knows.

"This is clearly the work of a very twisted mind." ( ** _Takes one to know one_** , one of his boxes jeers at him, but he ignores it).

"This is the cat's mind. A twisted place. Sorry about that, Wade… please remember she meant well. Even if it's really disgusting for us humans, for her you're just a really big cat." There's a very loud, pronounced yawn. "I'm going back to sleep now, I have an amputation in… four and a half hours, and I'd like to be able to concentrate when I saw someone's leg off. Goodnight, sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

 

Giving out corpses as a way to show affection.

Maybe he and the Bat-Cat had more in common than Wade originally thought. He still doesn't get what Peter meant, though – sawing someone's leg hardly takes any concentration, ever since electricity was first introduced to the wood-chopping industry.

*

Wade doesn’t have anything planned the following day, so of course he marathons 'The Golden Girls'. At some point, a weight settles against his side.

He looks down at the cat.

"Out of this entire apartment, in which you are nothing more than a temporary, rightless intruder," he growls at her, "this is where I sit. This is my sofa. This is my place. In my territory. Get the fuck off before I'll make sure your face gets acquainted with the ceiling."

The cat looks at him, considering.

"Well?"

She jumps on his shoulder.

He already grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and is about to throw her off as promised, when she starts doing that weird sound again.

Her mouth is closed, but it's like she's having bad bowl movement.

He fishes the phone out of the hidden depths between the couch pillows.

"Listen to this!" he exclaims, pressing the phone against the cat

"Wade, what am I supposed to listen to?" Peter's voice is muffled against the cat, even when he's on speaker.

"I think something is broken inside of her. She keeps doing that."

There's a sigh. "She's purring."

"Oh. Is that some kind of fatal condition?" he hopes he doesn’t sound too hopeful.

"Purring. That's what cats do. There are plenty of reasons for it, but the most common one is to show they're happy. She's probably keeping you company or sitting on you?"

"More like testing my patience by stepping all over me."

"You're already bonding." Peter chuckles, but quickly sobers up, as if he can feel Wade's glowering at him across town.

"She's lonely." He offers weakly.

"Cats don't get lonely." Wade snorts.

"Anyone can get lonely." Peter says wistfully, and Wade doesn't like where this conversation is going.

"Find the damn owner already. I'm going to choke this thing soon."

Peter smiles – Wade can hear it over the phone (he really doesn't know how's that possible, though, pretty sure physics somehow defies it.)

"They'll turn up soon."

 

Five hours later, the cat somehow slithered her way into his shirt, probably when he nodded off. She doesn't take her head out, and didn't take any breaks from making this 'purring' noise.

She's warm against his chest.

"Anosmatic, aren't we, Mizzi. Maybe it's an all-inclusive deal, along with your tendency for murderous sprees and looking like you were turned from the inside out."

There's no comment.

 

He doesn't really like this shirt anyhow, so it doesn't matter it stretches out of shape.

*

 The fourth day Wade gets up and personal with a cat ass in the morning, he decides that if he already bought that stupid fountain with its stupid bubbling noise, he'll buy the pest her own bed.

He calls the pet shop – the lady already recognizes his voice and sounds disgustingly chipper when she offers him a membership card. He mentally doubles the amount the owner would owe him.

 

He sets the new bed in the living room. It's a red cotton igloo with white fur trimming on the opening, covered in little cartoonish kitten paws.

The cat sniffs it curiously, thoroughly, for half an hour – before promptly hopping into the cardboard box that was formerly known as the bed's package, settling herself comfortably.

Wade takes out his frustration about the whole ordeal on the cat bed – imagining the cat is in it – and emptying two magazines into it and to the wall behind it.

The cat watches with interest. Unfortunately, none of the ricochets hits her.

As if by magic, his phone beeps, signaling an incoming text message.

_Hope you're pulling through ;)_

Wade glares at the screen. Another piece of plaster joins its fallen comrades upon the living room floor.

"I don’t even know why I bother. You're not going to sleep with me. You're a seven. Maybe even a seven and a half. You have an actual personality. A decent enough job. And there's no way you're gay with those glasses. This is stupid. This whole thing is the epitome of stupidity. I'm turning myself into a crazy cat lady, and I already had the dress and the crazy."

**_got her a cat bed_ **

He texts back.

*

Wade can't seem to find his bra anywhere.

He knew he left it on the table in the living room, because he took it off in the middle of playing Mass Effect. The straps were digging a bit too much into his skin, distracting him from finding the right way to weasel into Jack's pants.

It's not there.

The cat is conspicuously not at sight.

He's sitting on his bed, cleaning one of his guns, when he sees her walking in. She picks up a filthy, stinky sock that was lying on the floor for at least a month – with her _mouth_ – and crawls under the bed. He leans over, blood flowing to his brain, as he sees her the cat adding the sock to an existing pile of clothing – his rumpled bloody suit from two days ago, along with a dirty pair of boxers he left on the bathroom floor, a shirt he lost three months ago and his beautiful new bra, laced with little butterflies and adorned with white silky ribbons. She walks around in circles in the center of her loot, and finally settles, to look right into Wade's face.

Her butt is directly on his bra.

His imported, very expensive, very hard to find-in-his-size, _designer_ bra.

 

"She's stealing my stuff." He growls into the phone.

"That's an interesting development." Peter hums. "A cat-burglar. Who would've thought. What is she stealing?"

"My clothes. She took them and hid them under the bed. Like Ali-Baba."

"Maybe she's a kleptomaniac." Peter offers, and the bastard sounds amused. "She can't help it, poor thing."

Wade wishes he could send the pest to bite holes in all of his condoms and pee in his fucking precious hand-moisturizer.

"But I wouldn't call it stealing, exactly. Technically, the clothes are still in your home, in your room, even. Maybe relocating. Rearranging. Colour-coding –"

Wade hangs up on him, and crawls under the bed to salvage whatever he can.

*

He comes back home with bullets in his thigh and one of his ears dangling to the side of his face. He stumbles in through the window, one of his hands keeping his guts inside as best as he can. He crashes on the coach with a groan. Shit's painful. Fucking Fantastic Four. When that bratty little shithead burns down an entire section of Central Park it's A-Okay, but when Wade bombs one flimsy theater – everyone's a critic. Fucking cops shooting at him like killing a ginormous acid-spitting being from another dimension is easy-peasy, and saving ten-blocks-worth of civilians isn't worth a bit of rubble.

It wasn't even a fucking Monday.

He could keep the bullets lodged in, but he rather be done with it today – he draws one of his knives to pop out the bullets like they're unruly hairs that grew into his skin after a bad shave and the blade is just a sharp pair of tweezers. He loses count after twenty, and some time after that he feels woozy enough to drop the knife, since he can't discern where the pain is coming from anymore.

He closes his eyes.

Something lands on the couch, and he's not even surprised. The cat looks at him – she healed pretty well herself, most of the wounds already pink scabs.

She inches close, and nudges her nose against Wade's gently, before setting in the crook of his arm and purring with all her might.

She doesn't go to sleep. She watches him without blinking, and her eyes don't water.

"You're like those statues on Dr. Who, and not just because it looks like Mother Nature had a budget cut when she popped you out. Creepy little bugger."

 

When he wakes up the next day, she hasn't budged a single inch.

"No cat-butt for us today, Prune-face?" He croaks at her through his dry throat. She flattens her body against his chest, tucking herself under his chin.

"I guess you're somehow immune to my irresistible charm. No point trying to choke me, you know. I buy your cat food." He pats her back twice. Her skin is dry and warm. "Though maybe that's a good enough reason for a little wacko like you. Considering how it smells, I can't say I completely blame you."

He drifts back off, the cat buzzing against his chest.

*

It's been a week.

Peter texts Wade, calling him to bring the cat for a checkup, free of charge.

Despite being a bit cranky after yesterday, Wade complies. The odds are in his favor – he'll return with Mrs. Whiskers to the vet, Peter would take her in, and Wade could resume playing videogames and watching porn in peace. 

 

He steps in the clinic and is immediately assaulted by a bulky dog of black and white. The furry fiend is engulfed by bright plastic rods, supported by two wheels that look like they were stolen directly from a baby cart. The dog looks up to him with bulging eyes, panting excitedly.

Wade tries to sidestep the dog, but the dog rolls after him, gurgling in way which suggests one of his lungs is about to collapse. Wade makes a conscious effort to stop himself from kicking him (since it's probably Peter who'll have to fix those future broken ribs), while looking around to spot a possible human to accuse.

Said human is a guy in his forties, sitting across from them, next to the empty receptionist desk, engrossed in an undoubtedly _fascinating_ texting session.

Meanwhile, the dog leaps at Wade, trying to get to the carton box in his hands. Wade mentally applauds each time the dog lands and none of his eyes pops out of his skull. Inside the box, the cat – which was pretty relaxed thus far – shifts uneasily from side to side, peaking from the breathing holes.

"You're not eating this cat. Sure doesn't look like you need it, _fatso_."

That gets phone-guy up and about.

" _Excuse me –_ " he starts in a pretentious tone, but as soon as he meets Wade's eyes he immediately catches his tongue, face blanching.

"Come, Parsley. Come here," he calls the dog, sneaking panicked glances at Wade's pitted face.

"Don't worry," Wade tells him cheerfully as he sits down, placing the box in the seat next to him. "It's not leprosy. Is that even catching, for dogs? Since they have fur and all –"

Spice-dog doesn't seem impressed with his owner's attempts to save him from the mean scary man, or maybe he's just deaf – he stands before Wade, slobbering, eyes filled with hope. His face is stretched in a vacant smile, his nostrils twitch as they expand with every heavy breath.

"If you get one drop of spit anywhere near my pants –"

In a heroic feat, phone-guy actually gets up and snatches his dog away, fleeing from the clinic in a rush.

"Well what do you know, Wrinkles, seems like we're up next. Looks really _can_ get you places in life."

 

The inner door for the treatment room opens, creaking slightly.

"Mr. Tucker? You can come in now," Peter calls.

"Mr. Tucker had previous engagements he just remembered. Left the stove on, didn't take out the trash –"

"Wade, hey." Peter smiles at him. His hair is sticking out in a ridiculous manner and he desperately needs a cut, but instead of making him look like a neglected hobo, it's just… endearing.

"Sorry, Brian had some family emergency and it's just me here, I'm terrible at schedules. I probably mixed things up, they're probably supposed to come in tomorrow– need to see how Parsley – uh, come in."

Wade does and they settle back into their respective positions at the other sides of the metal table.

"There's really nothing new going on with our Mystery Owner," Peter tells him. "Only one call about a lost Sphynx, but she was the wrong colour."

"They come in more than one colour? The collection extends beyond Salmon-Pink?"

"Yeah, this one had black spots." Peter answers, oblivious to Wade's cynicism.

"Canada sure knows how to make them."

Wade is _sure_ he misheard that. "What?"

"Sphynx cats. They're from Canada."

Wade snorts. "Bullshit."

Peter quirks him a challenging eyebrow.

"Born and raised in Canada – I've never seen one of those things in my life."

"Those _cats_ –" Peter stresses the word, "– are quite expensive."

Wade thinks of the neighbourhood back in Winnipeg's north end where he spent most of his childhood, and agrees that it's not the place for fancy wrinkly cats. Not like he had so many friends who could've owned one.

(Not like he had any.)

 

"And how have you been, Miss?" Peter croons at the cat as he picks her up from the box. The scratch on his forearm scabbed, but it's no longer alone – there are other slashes around it, in varying states of scabbing.

He checks her over.

"It seems she's doing well. The wounds are closing up. Is Wade taking good care of you?" He smiles at her.

" _Wade_ is starting to get tired of it. Probably because your Mistress doesn't let him get a good night's sleep."

"Well, there's another thing we haven’t tried yet." Peter rummages through the drawers, and pulls out a weird plastic device. It's a white pole that ends in a hoop. He holds the cat by her breast and moves it over her. Wade's seen people do that before – when they're scanning the beach for lost coins.

 

"Looking for metals aliens left inside after the regular anal probing?"

"I forgot to do it when you first brought her in. Quite unprofessional of me, I was just so surprised. It's uncommon, but some people who have pure bred cats chip them –"

"Chip them?"

"They insert a small chip with a serial number. This device," Peter waves the white plastic, "checks for a chip – and if there is one, the serial number shows here," he points at the small oblong screen. "Then I can check with the Chip Center who's registered under the – hold still, lady."

"Why would they?" Wade asks.

"Besides loving their cat? Sphynx cats sell for around 1,500 dollars."

"You shitting me."

"I, in fact, shit you not."

Peter moves the device over every inch of the cat, but his efforts prove to be moot.

Peter sighs, placing the scanner back in the drawer. "It was worth a shot."

"Now what?" Wade asks.

 

Peter runs a hand through his hair. It sticks around like he stuck one of his fingers in an empty socket.

"That's up to you. If you can put with being her foster-home a while longer – maybe her owner is out of town and haven’t noticed she's missing yet…"

Wade doesn't really want to. "She seems to like you enough, why don't you take her?"

"I already have a cat back home."

"Two's a company?"

"Not for Hades." Peter says glumly. "He's very territorial and aggressive, and since he's got FIV I really can't take that risk."

"FIV?"

"Feline HIV. It's cat AIDS."

Wade snorts a laugh. "Cat AIDS? What did he do, got himself into some unprotected gay cat orgy?"

 

Peter stiffens. His gaze turns sharper than spikes, and the temperature of the room drops by at least five degrees.

"Mr. Wilson," Peter says, and Wade knows he crossed some invisible line, "this is not a laughing matter. Over three precents of the US feline population have the virus, and I don't want those numbers to include even one cat more."

"So what, did he shoot up heroin with some dumpster cats? Took some used needles?"

"Cats get it when they fight each other. Since she doesn’t have any fur to protect herself, she's prone to catch it. I think she's certainly been through enough already." Peter continues bristling. "I thought you already bonded, but if it's proving to be too much trouble for you, I'll find some other arrangement, it's –"

The cat stands up, stretching her paws against Wade's chest, pulling threads from his shirt with her claws.

"What do you want, pest? Can't you see us adults talking? I can't believe someone would pay twenty bucks to own a cat that looks like an octogenarian shriveled dangly man-bits –"

In the middle of his rant Wade notices Peter turned quiet. There's an awkward silence that follows, as Peter's aggression deflates like a hot air balloon.

 

"I guess I can keep her around for another week or two." Wade says to break the silence. "I already have five pounds of cat food beneath the sink, and I can't finish that much fish-shaped kibble by myself."

Peter gives him a small smile, and changes the subject.

"I did some extra reading on Sphynxes. Didn't have the pleasure of such patient yet. You noticed she kind of… smells?"

"Not really? Considering she shoves her ass in my face each morning."

"Well, Sphynx require additional care – their skin gets grimy, so they need a weekly bath, and since they don't have eyelashes they should have their eyes cleaned daily, either in the morning of the evening. I already bought the wipes."

 

(He's serious.)

Peter pulls a white box and opens it.

"I'll show you so you can do it at home. Hold her neck."

Wade warps his hand around her neck. She doesn't seem to like it.

"Oh- No, Wade, let her go"

Wade doesn’t understand what he did wrong.

"My bad, you never had a cat, did you –" ( _A sudden frisson runs through Wade's body for no reason_ ) "– you're not used to it, here, I'll show you."

Peter gently pinches the folds of skin on the cat's nape. He pulls out a wipe, and caresses it against the cat's closed eye. As he pulls it further, a string of white sticky fluid clutches to the wipe. Peter uses the rest of the wipe to catch it.

"Here, now you try."

It's easier than Wade expects it to be, and oddly satisfying – pulling the grime out like the never-ending-handkerchiefs magicians pull out of hats. 

"Very good!" Peter praises. "Notice to use a different wipe for each eye."

"Of course. Hygiene is very important to me." 

*

After the preposterous claim that the cat is of Canadian origin, Wade decides to put her to the ultimate test of which no true Canadian would fail.

He puts two bowls in front of her. One is filled with disgusting, industrial shame and mockery of proper maple syrup – crusted sugar with the lie of caramel.

The other contains pure liquid bliss, imported and true, the kind which fills every pancake with love and warmth.

Solomon got nothing against this trial.

She stands between the two, considering, debating, comparing.

The cat makes her choice.

 

Wade plucks her up and looks at her dead in the eye.

"I'm sorry I have ever doubted you."

 

They spend the afternoon together on the couch, listening to their national anthem and watching Mr. Dressup. 

*

Come evening, Wade can't put off the shower business any longer. Schrodinger is dozing off in his lap, and he decides to exploit her temporary disorientation to relocate her to the shower. The sudden movement causes her to stir, and by the time he slams the door shut behind him and puts her in the bathtub she's wide awake.

"This is for your own good," he tells her as he checks the water temperature against his palm, "Doctor's orders."

He expects her to put a decent fight, for unleashed chaos or one of those deep cuts Peter always seems to have somewhere along his arms. Ever the nonconformist, the cat sits in the bathtub, pleased. She purrs as he leathers her skin, closing her eyes.

"Of course you love water. You defective cat."  He rubs between the wrinkles and takes her paws between his fingers. "You're a factory mistake."

He coats her with bubble-foam, takes a picture and sends it to Peter.

_Adorable! :-D_

Peter replies almost instantly. The cat is anything but (and god, since when Peter started adding 'noses' to emoticons like he's seventy, why is Wade even talking to him). He wonders when was the last time Peter had been to an optometrist or given an up-to-date eyeglass prescription. Fuzzy eyesight would explain half of Peter's texts and why he wasn't freaked out by Wade, either.

Could be dangerous, for a doctor. Even if all he slices up is doggies.

 

The next day, Wade wakes up to the smell of soap.

*

The bath seems to affect their new relationship on a fundamental level.

The cat follows him around the house, sticking to his heels like an orphaned duckling. A closed door results in awful screeching. She sits on his underwear between his legs on his morning dump. She tangles between his feet as he tries to grab himself a beer. She never leaves the couch when he watches TV.

It takes a few days before he inevitably snaps, panicking just a moment too late – he already threw her off to the kitchen. The cat twirls through the air with grace, and lands on the countertop, unharmed.

She comes back, and mews at him before climbing onto his shoulder, her claws scraping at his skin.

"I'm not going to apologise for that. A guy needs some space in his life, you pink – _thing_. Stop following me around like a groupie, go lick your balls or chew on some shoes, find yourself some hobbies."

She licks his ear, making him shudder involuntarily.

"I hate you."

(But he doesn't throw her again.)

*

It's cold.

The kind that sinks deep into your bones and grabs them from the inside with icy talons.

It's cold and It's dark.

It's always dark in here – when he opens his eyes, when they're closed.

It's cold and it's dark and everything hurts.

Everything hurts so bad.

He floats, even with the concrete floor beneath him, digging into his skin with nubs and prickles across the uneven surface. His skin burns, but the coolness of the stone stopped helping with that a long, long time ago. He doesn't know which side is up and which is down. He doesn't know how long he's been here.

He tries to call for help, but the words catch in his throat. He tries again and fails and tries and fails and tries but he can't hear anything and the silence is a choking force of its own, stifling as it shoves down his throat, suffocating him in the darkness.

He silently pleads for help, for anyone, to come and take him away from this place. But he can't see the exit - he doesn't know if there is one at all and if he's not just thrown in the depth of a bottomless chasm and he can't move and he just lies down as the pain washes upon him in never-ending waves, pulsing through his organs to his blood to his skin to his bones.

His fingers twitch.

Slowly, he moves them, and starts to scratch. It's slow at first, but his skin won't stop itching, won't stop burning – he tries to ease it somehow, to get something off – and he scratches and scratches and scratches and he can't see anything even with his eyes open so wide he can feel them tearing up and he claws at his skin but nothing helps and it would never stop he'll be here forever and they won't let him die and he can't do anything and it's just like –

*

Wade snaps awake, gasping. The sheets are soaked with his sweat and his shirt is plastered against his skin.

He forces himself to breathe through his nose and exhale through his mouth, slowly. New-York's constant light pollution illuminates the room – revealing a closet, a nightstand and some busty ladies winking at him from the walls.

There's something soft and warm against him.

It feels grounding.

It feels real.

He registers a stream of sounds in his ears, a noise with no particular meaning.

 

"No one has sung me a serenade before." He tells the cat, looking at her. His throat feels scratchy, and he's not sure if he hasn't been screaming.

She nudges her nose against his, giving it a small lick with a rough and unpleasant tongue. Her pale eyes shine like headlights in the middle of her sharp, angular face, making her seems even more of an alien.

The numbers upon the alarm clock glow red, marking it 04:18.

 

"How do you feel about a Disney marathon, Minion?"

She mews. Wade gets up, strips off his sweaty pajamas and pulls on his mask.

They go to the living room together and Wade pops in 'The Aristocats'.

He only drops the remote twice.

*

The next time he goes shopping, Wade buys a few tuna cans.

You never know when the zombie apocalypse will strike. In a zombie apocalypse, tuna cans would weigh their worth in inedible _gold_.

He explains it to the cat as he empties a can into her food dish.

"Just so you'd realise how much of my money you're eating up, freeloader."

Minion acknowledges and expresses her gratitude by licking the dish clean.

*

Wade hadn't had a wank in two weeks.

The cat clings and follows him like a leech, and he's not about to put on a private show for her. He can't lock her out of any room before she starts screeching like he's slaughtering her (can't say it didn't cross his mind), and that's a real boner-killer, right there. He feels antsy and pissed. This is one thing he can't bring up to Peter (– though he'd love to bring it up in another context –) and while he is no stranger to violent urges he's starting to feel his forced abstinence taking its toll.

He stares at the computer screen and wonders aloud what to type to get him the answer to this one. Whatever comes out of his mouth sounds either awful or sick or desperate or the whole lot, and would probably put him on the FBI watchlist.

'How to act when you're cockblocked by your cat', 'Cat-Free masturbation', 'Help Me Jerry Springer – My Cat Is a Fanatic Christian And She Won't Let Me Fap!'

 

In the end he settles on "How to distract a cat".

Laser pointers come first – Wade does have a Laser on one of his SIGs, but multitasking isn't one of his strengths. He goes through mouse toys, jingling sparkling balls, customized-cat-apps  – and then he finds catnip.

Already having the necessary skills to be a successful drug dealer, he naturally falls into the part with ease, and orders the stuff – legally (!) – from the merry lady at the pet shop.

 

Having to get someone stoned to have one measly wank. This is what it must feel like when one lives under a dictator.

"Your reign of terror ends here, Truffle." He tells her as she rolls around the floor, pupils blown wide.

 

The bedroom door shuts with a satisfying click.

*

Trying to use the Netflix account he only maybe unlawfully acquired from one of his hits, Simba decides to grab his misplaced attention by standing in front of the computer screen and calling him to scratch behind her unproportional ears.

A small scratching session isn't enough for the glutton. Wade takes a deep breath as he reminds himself the cat is all that's holding the flimsy connection between Peter and himself, lets her win this round, and goes to watch some television. The cat doesn't follow.

 

There's rattling from behind the couch. The computer chair suddenly rolls into the kitchen. As he looks, the cat runs the entire short hall before leaping onto the chair like a winged monkey from the depths of hell. She clutches the back of the chair, claws digging to the cushions, and rolls along until it hits the wall.

"I think that catnip thing is a little bit more dangerous than they told me back on the internet." He ponders aloud as she climbs down, before she chooses to bound onto her makeshift skateboard from a different angle. "But between your brain and my dick, my dick totally wins. It has my balls to support it and everything. Three to One. Fatality!"

The cat doesn’t seem to mind, unperturbed as she accepts the fate of quick disintegration upon her brain cells. The chair travels around the apartment, and Wade catches a rerun of an Austin Powers movie.

( _It wasn't a shaved Persian_.)

*

Wade is about to take a shower when the cat slithers in, eyeing his naked form.

" _Someone_ is a little too much into voyeurism," he tells her, uncomfortable. It's stupid to be uncomfortable in front of a cat, but she has a very judgmental face. "First not letting me fap and now walking in on me? Have you no decorum, Lady?"

"Do you need to go?" he looks at the litter box, but it seems the furthest from the cat's interest. She cocks her head at him and meows.

"What."

She asking for something, he's sure. He goes through a mental check list – the water's running on the fountain, she has fresh food in her dish, it's not too cold in the apartment, he gave her decent attention – there really isn't anything, according to Maslow, that she should need right now.

"I don't care what you want, you tiny tyrant. I'm taking a shower, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

He opens the water and picks up the soap, ignoring her chatter.

He sees her move in the corner of his eye and turns. She's sitting on the sink, right across from the bathtub.

" _MEOW_!" She screeches at him, and her hind leg knocks the tap's handle, sending the water rushing to the drain in full blast.

The soap drops from his hand and –

*

_Wade is seven. It's rainy and it's cold, and he still has three blocks before he gets home. Home is cold too, but at least it's not wet. He doesn't have bus fare and his flimsy cheap umbrella broke as soon as he stepped out of school. His notebooks, filled with chicken-scratch handwriting, are soaked like toilet paper._

_He walks around the puddles, but can't tune out an annoying call. His feet carry him a different path until he finds the source – a small, tiny black kitten, soaked and helpless. He picks it up to find it frozen – and immediately puts him beneath his shirt, against his skin. It's not much considering they're both soaked, and the cold isn't helping – but the kitten quiets with a small sound, and something warm blooms in Wade's chest._

_"Don't worry", he tells him. "I'll take care of you."_

_Wade opens the door to his house carefully. His dad is passed out on the couch, bottle still half grasped in his hand. His mother isn’t home._

_He peels his wet clothes from himself and gets two towels. They're thin and worn. He wraps one around the kitten first, rubbing him gently to dry his drenched fur. He tucks him safely inside his blanket before he dresses himself, putting two pairs of socks on his feet._

_He opens the fridge –there isn't much, but there's milk – and the expiration date was only two days ago. He opens the cap to take a whiff – and it smells decent enough._

_He grabs a small bowl and quietly tip-toes to his room, shutting the door with utmost care._

_"We can't let anyone know you're here, okay?" he whispers urgently as he pours the milk. "You'll have to keep quiet."_

_The kitten doesn't drink the milk._

_He also doesn't keep quiet._

_Wade tries everything, but the thing yowls and cries. He doesn't know what it wants. He doesn't know how to make it stop._

_"Please", he pleads. "Please, stop."_

_He doesn't._

_The door slams open, and Wade is so scared._

_"Keep your mouth SHUT, you ungrateful little shit!" the man yells, and the reek of alcohol floods Wade's nostrils. He can't talk, but he pleads with all his might, with all his heart – please keep quiet. Please. Please just wait until he'll go away. Pleasepleaseplease –_

_The kitten mews._

_Wade's father leans forward, his face scrunched with confusion._

_"What's this."_

_Wade can't bring himself to answer._

_"I've asked you a question, shithead," his voice is deathly quiet, "and you better fucking answer it before you'll regret it."_

_"It's a cat." He strangles out in a small voice. "I found it. Sir."_

_"You've found it."_

_"It… it was crying. It was raining and he's gotten wet."_

_Wade's father is silent. He radiates danger off in waves._

_"It got wet, you say."_

_Wade nods once, eyes on the floor. He looks at the hole in the carpet, from the time his mom dropped her cigarette on a patch still soaked with beer. The edges are scorched black._

_The kitten mews again. He sounds accusing._

_The man springs into action. With one hand, he grabs Wade's arm in a bruising grip. He reaches out and pulls the kitten from the blankets, holding him from the end of his tail like he's a filthy, diseased rat. He drags them both to the bathroom, and Wade knows something bad is about to happen._

_Wade's father carelessly throws him against the door. The handle hits his shoulder, hard._

_"I'll teach you bringing those disgusting things into my house, you little fucker. Like you're not trouble enough."_

_Wade feels tears streaming down his face. "Watch. Watch, and If you'll stop watching for even a second I swear to god you'll regret it."_

_Wade's father fills the sink. It's filthy. The walls around are saturated with mold and the air reeks of poison and mildew._

_Wade watches as his father drops the kitten. He falls down like a rock. Water splashes all over the floor. The kitten shrieks desperately, flapping around frantically, and Wade starts sobbing, but he doesn't looks away, even when the tears make everything seem blurry._

_It probably doesn’t take that long, but it's the longest moment in Wade's life. There's a gurgle, and slowly, the water are no longer splashing._

_Their surface stills._

_Wade's father cuffs him harshly on the head and plunks the kitten out of the sink, placing him in Wade's hands._

_"Throw that stinking thing in the trash and don't you ever – " he cuffs him again, and Wade's ears are ringing "- dare to do this again."_

_"Yes, sir." Wade answers like he should, and carries the kitten to the trash can in the kitchen. The kitten is so cold. He was alive just minutes ago, he still looks alive – except he's limp. His tongue dangles from his open mouth and his murky blue eyes are open, yet unseeing._

_Beneath his puffy eye, Wade can feel his skin swelling._

_"I'm sorry," he whispers brokenly, his throat tight, barely audible so his father won't hear._

_"I didn't mean to."_

_He hugs the kitten to his chest, but he just gets colder._

*

When Wade comes to, he's still cold – he's sitting in the tub, and the water that hit his skin are icy. He doesn't know how long he's been out. The cat sits on the edge of the tub in front of him, hunched like a gargoyle.

He swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn't go away. His arm waves around until it knocks against the tap and the water stops. As soon as it happens, the cat jumps on top of his folded knees, and reaches to press her head to his chest.

Her purrs echo throughout the room, so loud he can hear her chest vibrating.

"That's never going to happen to you, baby girl." He assures her softly. He picks her up for a tentative hug she allows, even though his skin must be freezing.

"He's dead now. He's so dead the worms already pooped him out and ate it and pooped it too. More Dead than the parrot in that Monty Python gig. Deader than a mummy in the British Museum. Dead like what Sarah Palin is inside."

Wade knows he's squeezing her too tight, but he doesn't let go, can't help but press his ear against her to hear her heart thumping in her ribcage.

 

"Nothing to be afraid of."

 

They stay together in the bathtub for a very long time.

*

It takes four days before Wade can bring himself to take a shower again.

Dun'ya watches from the door as he smashes the sink down with a sledgehammer, and the tiles slide from the wall, baring the ugly concrete beneath. He steps over the rubble and forces himself to perform a perfunctory wash, going through the motions quickly, mind blank.

 

The next morning he starts brushing his teeth above the kitchen's sink, spitting over dirty plates and glasses filled with stale water.

 

 

It's not like he needed the mirror, anyway.


	2. Part B

Two months since the cat had first wiggled her naked ass into his apartment, Peter tells Wade he better bring Miss Mittens to get basic (though not obligatory) shots.

Wade doesn't mind letting someone else stab the little bugger.

 

He sits on the already-familiar couch in the waiting room, musing on different methods of pulling out nails (and how do you pull them if they belong to a biter and you don't have anything to really grasp do you move on to the toenails or to the teeth –) when a new patient walks in.

What comes through the door could be a pony, but has no hooves. The head looks like a wet oversized rag, with two red droopy eyes peaking from somewhere within. A string of saliva hangs from a part of the lower jaw, where the lips fell outwards and the gums are bare. Two pronounced flaps hang from the neck. The eyebrows move, but Wade can't really see a pupil or even most of the eye, just pink and red. The dog (or so Wade assumes) is covered with thin white lines – on his legs, on his sides, on his face – some more pronounced than others, disturbing the flow of a shining grey coat. Either this is the result of a tiger and a dog getting frisky, or this is the most scar-ridden canine Wade encountered as of yet.

At the end of the behemoth, connected by a leash, a fragile old lady follows.

She nods at Wade with a smile and greets the receptionist, sitting in the lone chair next to his table.

"Mrs. Rosenbaum?" the receptionist asks. His dreads are pulled back into a loose bun.

"Please, call me Tova," she smiles at him as well, and Wade can't quite place her accent.

"Tova, and that's – Romeo?"

"Yes. We're here for his shots, I've already spoken with Dr. Parker."

Brian nods. "I'll go call him." He stands up, and Wade notices for the first time Brian is as tall as he is. Shortly after, Brian comes back with Peter in tow.

"Tova? Hello, pleased to meet you." He extends his hand and she shakes it.

"Pleasure, young man."

"And that's Romeo?" He looks down at the mammoth. "For rabies?"

"Yes."

Peter smiles at the dog, but doesn't reach to pet him.

"Come in."

The dog seems reluctant to follow to the room, but the old woman tugs his leash and he drags himself forwards lethargically. Each step is heavy and slow, making the extra skin flap around.

 

It takes about thirty seconds before the growling starts.

Wade watches with interest as Peter opens the door to a crack and calls Brian in. They speak in hushed tones, and Peter sounds a bit forced when he tells Mrs. Rosenbaum it's better if she'll wait outside.

 

Two minutes later, filled with rumbles, vicious sounds and a general uproar, the treatment room door slams open and quickly shuts.

Brian is holding a towel rapidly soaking with blood over his left forearm. Peter sighs heavily as he looks at his freshly-designed glasses – both lenses are broken, one glazed with a delicate webbing pattern. A trickle of blood dribbles from his nose. Wade notices with delight that Peter glasses are thoroughly wrecked, and commends the beast for what seems like a well-executed doggie-headbutt.

 

" _Oy vey zmir!_ " the old women calls, "are you okay?"

This is a rather stupid question. Peter answers it as such.

"I'm fine, Tova, all's good. Brian, I think you should sit this one out." He fakes a smile. "Romeo is a bit touchy, isn't he?"

Behind the door, the growling doesn't stop, just rises and drops in volume.

"Yes, poor thing."

"I'll try this again."

 

"Need a hand?" Wade offers, standing up. He imagines he saw Peter's face flushing, but it's probably some of Peter's blood, smeared across his cheek.

"I… He can bite you, and my insurance won't cover it."

 "Trust me, nothing this pooch does would matter the slightest."

Peter chews on his bottom lip.

"Pinky swear."

 

Peter evaluates his options, and probably reached the conclusion he's got nothing to lose before telling Brian to take the rest of the day off.

"Just let me put my contacts on".

Peter comes back from the bathroom, face washed clean, blinking and scratching his irritated eyes as he walks over towards Wade. "God, I hate contacts."

"What's the plan, boss?"

Peter motions for Wade to lower his head. "I need you to hold the dog down so I can give him the shots. I don't want you getting injured, Romeo is already agitated, so we need to be very careful with him. To hold him as still as possible, you should hold his neck –"

"Gotcha."

Wade steps in the room and shuts the door. If there are calls of distress behind him, he doesn't hear them.

The dog stands backed into the corner, between the different cabinets, sounding like a tractor in the wrong gear. Broken glass is strewn all around the floor, either from Peter's glasses or from one of the framed pictures that fell in the havoc that took place.

"Aren't you a little bitch."

 

In less than a minute, Wade got the dog in a chokehold. The crook of his right arm is pressed against the dog's jugular vein, secured by his left arm – while he uses both his hand and his head to pin the dog's head in place. His thighs are pressed to the dog's heaving sides, while his shins have slid between the dog's inner legs – parting and spreading them, disabling the dog from using his lower back to wriggle out. Wade's entire front is pressed against the dog's back, who is, quite frankly, sounding like death itself.

Wade encountered some attack dogs in his life, but he must say this one has a whole new level to himself. Makes the ones he saw in the military or securing secret facilities seem like crippled circus poodles.

 

" _Wade_!" Peter shrieks as he steps in. "Jesus, Wade – this – this isn't –"

"Take your time Petey, I can do this all day. No pressure."

The dog writhes against him. The strain on his muscles feels good – Wade hadn't had a chance to grapple in a while, bullets and knives making modern fights rather short. The dog must weigh around one-hundred and fifty pounds, but Wade already pinned opponents thrice his weight.

"Please don't choke my patient."

"He's fine."

The dog takes it as a cue to wheeze dramatically, before continuing torturing Wade's ears. His growls rumble through his massive frame, and Wade feels each and every one.

"Shhh, Romeo, it's okay, shhh. It's just a little shot and we'll be all done, you won't even feel it."

Peter leans over Wade, avoiding the dog's front. Wade's suddenly uncomfortably aware that Peter is pressed against his own back while holding a syringe. As soon as Peter touches the dog to find a suitable place to inject, he starts fighting Wade with all his might, as if Peter is trying to butcher him. He's whining and screaming and making sounds Wade honestly didn't know dogs are capable of.

He tightens his hold.

There's a sudden stillness as the dog quiets. Something warm crawls up Wade's pants, and the air is filled with the stench of public restrooms.

The dog sags in his grasp like a potato sack, continuing making awful sounds which suggests many faults with his respiratory system.

Wade doesn't really see Peter injecting the dog the shot, but he knows it's done as the warmth is gone from his back.

 

"All done. Wade, I'm going to step outside now. As soon as your release him you go through that door over there to the recovery room – I don't want him attacking you. Okay?"

"Sure."

Wade releases the dog shortly after Peter leaves. As soon as his grips slackens, the dog bolts through the door, not sparing Wade a glance.

Wade gets up and dusts himself off – not that it helps him much. He smells like a combination of doggy-odor and a back alley next to a bar.

 

He nudges the door open to see the dog pressing his massive head against the old woman's stomach. He folds against her, as if she can protect him from the evils of the world, from the mean humans who held him down and poked him with needles. She wraps herself around him and he leans on her, making her stumble backwards.

" _You did so good, I'm so proud of you! You're so brave, Romeo, you're such a good dog._ "

She speaks a string of compliments in a quiet, soothing voice, and it take Wade some moments to realise it sounds weird because she's not speaking English.

" _Quite a dog you got there_ ," Wade tells her, his Polish a bit rusty.

She looks at him, and her pale green eyes are warm beneath her sagging eyelids, her wrinkles etched like monuments of the joy she had in her life. Her shriveled hand rests on the top of the dog's head, lightly stroking – and he didn't see it before, but those small stubs are apparently Romeo's ears.

" _One of a kind."_ She answers with a smile.

*

Peter releases another heavy sigh as the door closes after them. He rubs his eyes tiredly and leans his head against the wall. His neck is long and pale, the kind that's nice and all but would look better with a hickey or two.

"Well that was exciting!" Wade tells him cheerfully, popping his knuckles.

"The glamorous side of the veterinarian practice." Peter replies dryly. "Fighting down your patients tooth and nail. Literally."

He opens his eyes slowly.

"I'm sorry about the… the mess. I don't have any spare clothes that'll fit you…"

"What, this? It's just piss."

Peter turns to look at him. His eyes have the unappealing shade of the ones of a junkie.

"Seriously, Petey, no biggie. Piss. Urine. It washes out." (Wade has been covered in worse.)

"Don't try to weasel out of it. It's Buttercup's turn now."

"Who?" Peter asks, frazzled.

Wade nods his head towards the red plastic cat-carrier on the seats. Buttercup meows a greeting, commenting for the first time since her arrival.

"I thought her name was Mittens?"

"Nah, it didn't catch. We're trying until one of them works."

"Interesting technique." Peter heads back to the treatment room, and motions Wade to follow.

"Don't worry, Petey, I'll hold this one down, too."

*

Wade and Neko are playing Mass Effect together when Wade's phone informs him there ain't no other man but him.

There aren't many people who would make Wade miss a cut-scene in which Shepard is about to finally get some from Cortez (he and Jack just didn't work out; it wasn't him, totally her). There's literally only one person who has a personal ringtone on Wade's IPhone.

"Heya, Doc."

"Hey, Wade. How're you?"

"Same as I was six hours ago."

Peter chuckles nervously. "Yeah, about that, I wanted to thank you about earlier today –"

Wade looks helplessly as the scene unfolds before him, muted and missed out.

"Don't mention it," he tries to cut the conversation short, but Peter decided there's no time like the present to start monologuing.

"– No, really. Romeo has just been through a lot –" Wade watches as obviously crucial details are being shared with Shepard "– …og-fighting and no one wants dogs like him, and Tova, she's really something, hand-fed him when he wa-" and as Sheperd answers something witty and awesome "– but she doesn't have the means to take him to –"

Wade tries to hum Peter into reaching the end of this pointless speech, but the scene ends and he missed it all out. Neko rubs her head against his knee, expressing her sympathy.

"Yes, wow, that was really enlightening!" He tells Peter.

"Really?" Something is different about Peter's voice. It sounds… Wade doesn't know how to describe it. No one has talked to him in that tone before, but it's not bad.

"I… Great! Say, that Judoka-move you pulled… you a martial artist, or something?"

"Or something."

"What did you say you were doing, again?"

"I didn't." Wade smirks. "Got to keep some cards close to the chest. Chicks dig the mystery, y'know?"

Peter clears his throat.

 "Yeah. Chicks."

*

Time flies by, and before he knows it, it's already been five months. Five months of sending cat pictures, cat videos, eating dinners to long suffering rants about rodents with neglected teeth conditions and turtles who didn't get enough sunlight.

Wade could care less about all those things, but it's nice to have Peter's voice in his ear as he washes the dishes or changes the sand in the litter box. He likes to imagine Peter genuinely enjoys sharing those things with him, that he likes his inputs and encouraged when Wade agrees with him on subjects he has no faint clue about.

 

Somewhere along the way, Peter stops mentioning the search for the cat's previous owner.

Wade's okay with that.

*

"You need to get her fixed."

"I've been saying that from day one!" Wade counters, flipping the pancake over. "But you told me not to make fun of her. No Wade," He hitches his voice to mimic Peter, "this is just how she is Wade, you'll hurt her feelings! Sphynxes are such magical cats that throw up glitter instead of furballs… tell me doctor, is there still a chance?"

Peter snorts a laugh. "I mean bring her over to get her spayed. _Each year,_ " his tone starts to get the certain note it takes when Peter's about to deliver a very long, boring diatribe about some pet-medical-shit, " _three million cats_ are being put down, in the US alone! Countless others wait in shelters for –" Wade tunes him out for a bit, and wonders what Peter wears when he's home. Somehow he always pictured him wearing the scrubs when they were talking, but he lets himself explore different options – Peter seems like the kind of guy who'll wear really outdated t-shirts with lame puns and maybe walk around in his boxers –

"– Wednesday?"

Wade snaps out of his daze. "Come again?"

"This Wednesday, you'll bring her in? Nine AM?"

"… Sure." Wade agrees, though he's not sure what for.

"Great! She needs to fast before the surgery, so don't let her eat anything after nine PM on Tuesday, and we'll keep her here until Thursday evening. See you then!"

"Well Felix," Wade tells the cat, "seems like I won't be the one who'll be cutting you to bits after all."

*

Peter keeps spamming Wade with updates on the cat's condition. When they're going in, when they're done, when she wakes up, when she pees. Wade doesn't respond, because there's not much to say. The water fountain gurgles on the kitchen counter. He pulls the plug out.

He faps without opening the drawer and using the catnip-stash.

The following morning he wakes up refreshed and well rested, and no one is sitting on his face.

He has half a day to burn, so he goes out to get some tacos and get some freelancer work done.

Come evening, Wade has burned about 3,000 calories and exactly four people, so when he sees a stunning redhead kissing Peter's cheek at the door, he is feeling at least 74% less violent than any other day, which keeps him from doing anything he'll regret later on.

"Your girlfriend?"

Peter startles, not noticing Wade while he gazed after the woman.

"Hardly. She's really not my type."

"Not into redheads?"

"Guess you could say that."

"Talk about picky! She looks like sex on a stick!"

"Please don't call her _that_." Peter grimaces. "Besides, looks aren't everything, you know."

Attractive people claiming looks aren’t everything are much like, in Wade's opinion, Bill Gates preaching that not everything in life revolves around money.

He says as much.

(Whoops. Need to change the mind-to-mouth filter.)

"You think I'm attractive?" Peter sounds baffled. Considering his brand new (less horrible) glasses and the fact he has free access to mirrors, Wade doesn't see why.

 Wade continues as he hasn't just heard that, shifting the subject to the cat, which leads to Peter gladly taking over.

*

Spending ten days watching the cat crawling around the house with The Cone of Shame is totally worth whatever he had to put up with until now. She bumps into walls and almost knocks her fountain off to the floor while trying to drink.

"Serves you right," Wade gloats as the water fill up the cone.

*

On the sixth day of the Cone-Count, Wade's out to off a minor sleazebag. On his way to the building from where he's going to take the shot, he comes across a 'Lost Dog' poster, duct-taped to a street light, featuring a cross-eyed mutt. He takes a picture and texts it to Peter, before shutting his phone and hefting his duffle bag.

*

On the ninth day of the Cone-Count, the cat becomes maudlin, whining after Wade.

He picks her up carefully, supporting her weight like Peter taught him, and lets her snuggle against him. It's difficult for her with the plastic around her face, but she makes do.

 

"OH MY GOD!" he calls. "I've got it!"

*

After Peter removes the stitches, Wade informs him that he can open the cat her own Personal Health Record File under the name ' _Fluffy_ '.

*

In one chilly December morning, Fluffy refuses to leave the sanctuary of the bed, a stubborn lump beneath the duvet.

 

"That won't do, would it."

She only agrees coming out to rest against his skin, beneath his shirt and hoodie. Her skin is still a bit cold.

"Don’t worry beetle-bug, Papa is going to make you the most fashionable genetic mistake."

 

He sends Peter the photo later– of the cat warped up in a Deadpool-themed kitty sweater, costum-made by yours truly.

_Love the colour scheme :-)_

Peter texts back. Wade has about fifteen seconds to grin stupidly towards his phone, before it chirps with another message.

_Although blue works better with red. They're complimentary colours._

**_black works better with blood splatters, less messy_ **

_lol plan to off someone?_

**_not unless I'm getting paid_ **

_ROFL_

 

Wade doesn't have anything to say to that.

"Cellphones are going to kill everyone one day, Fluffy. But at least I'll have some texts to remember him by."

_Make her something that'll bring out her eyes. She's a lady!_

**_beggars can't be choosers_ **

He texts back, and wishes it wouldn't have felt so true.

*

Wade hasn't socialized with many veterinarians, but he's pretty sure most of them don't demand people to bring their animals in for deworming and try to manipulate the pet-owners with unsettling facts and statistics and death rates.

 

"And that's it! All good. No more nasty parasites in this yummy-tummy."

Peter affectionately strokes Fluffy's head that pokes out from her new rainbow sweater.

"I know I'm not supposed to have any favorites, but you're the best patient I've ever had."

"We're all up for favoritism, aren't we baby girl?"

"Sure looks like it, but I don't get fancy sweaters like this lady here." Peter teases.

 

Wade waited for him to say something like that.

"Speaking of which."

He pulls out Peter's gift from the front main pocket of his hoodie.

"Thought it would bring out your eyes."

Peter unfolds the knitted cap.

"Fluffy helped out too. Chewed up the yarn to make it extra-soft for you."

 

Peter holds the cap in his hands ( _were they shaking?_ ) and can't seem to look away.

"Its got a spider on it." He sounds slightly choked. Maybe he caught something. 'Tis the season.

"Cool, isn't it?" Wade speaks louder than he usually does, Peter's reaction making him uncomfortable, and he hopes Peter isn't secretly arachnophobic. "Found it on some granny-websites, and let me tell you those things are awful, they're still formatted like it's the nineties and everything is purple and in Times New Roman, you better appreciate it."

"Thank you." Peter says genuinely, and his eyes look weird when he looks at Wade, smiling. There's no 'you shouldn't have' or some other fake forced comment.

"It's really cool." He tugs the knitted cap on, even though they're indoors. The red spider sits bright on his forehead, surrounded in blue.

"Of course it's cool, I made it! I finally get why they use knitting needles to knit."

(Last time he used it to stab someone in the eye and pump his brains out. Now that he started using them for their intended purpose, he feels his inner old lady has taken wing.)

 

Peter looks at a particularly interesting spot on the floor, then clears his throat.

"Wade, um, I was wondering if you're maybe not busy, there's this WJC match in a bar not that far off from here, and watching sports alone kind of sucks, so maybe, uher –"

"What's to you with hockey?" Wade frowns.

"I like, the, um – it's like ice skating, but –  and there's group effort – and –"

Wade knew Americans are weird about hockey, and Peter mumblings proves him right.

"You a puck bunny?"

"It's Rabbit." It seems to slip automatically. Peter brow furrows. "And there's no such thing. You either mean a Pani Rabbit or one of the Blancs, and what's that got to do with anything?"

Wade studies Peter. Something smells fishy and none of the people in the room have a vagina (as far as he knows).

"So you're going out to watch some future NHL stars getting their ass kicked and you're asking me to come with."

"If – if you don't have any other plans, ah, y'know, it's not like –"

"I'm in, squirt." Wade grins. It's been a long time since he watched a match with someone, and the WJC is one of the leagues he favors most. This year Canada's hosting so he won't need to watch it on four in the morning.

Watching it with Peter sounds better than watching it with Fluffy.

"Please never call me that again" Peter grimaces.            

"Okay, pipsqueak," Peter punches him lightly on the shoulder, and the pompoms hanging to the sides of his face bounce around.

*

Wade's closet has never been particularly tidy. It's more like an archive of all his clothing articles, with no particular ordering system. Seeing as he usually doesn't go out much in clothes which aren't his suit, it usually works out fine.

Fluffy regards him from the bed with her judgmental eyes, legs tucked beneath her body.

"It's not a date." He tells her, glaring.

Fluffy is unfazed.

"It's not!" He insists, grinding his teeth.

" _Meow_." She counters his arguments, indifferent.

"It's not a date and I am not freaking out. Don't give me that look, you useless potato-muncher. If anything, it's broing-out. We bro-out." He nods to himself. "Peter and I are broing-out, because adding 'bro' to things immediately reasserts my heterosexuality."

Digging out through his clothes, he plucks out two relatively clean articles – a red hoodie and some dark slacks. He spares a longing glance towards an elegant yellow dress he bought long ago and hadn't had the chance to wear yet – but grudgingly acknowledges it may not be the best choice for a bar or a bro-out.

 

He compensates himself by sliding into a pair of snug patterned panties, with twirling red spirals over black cotton.

"How do I look?" He asks Fluffy, and she regards him carefully.

" _Merow_."

"Thanks." He bends over and presses a kiss to her head. "You be good now, Fuzzball. Papa's going to drink and curse and throw some darts, and maybe if some deity is watching he's gonna get laid! Thor, I hope you're getting this! You can join us if you'd like."

 

Everything is going to be just fine.

*

The bar is not that far off from his place, couple of bus-stops and a short walk. Peter's already there, fiddling with something on his phone, not noticing Wade approaching. He's dressed up nicely enough – out of his ill-fitting lab coat, there are lean, toned biceps clad in a plain blue button-up, collar peaking under a brown jacket with too many buttons.

All would look pretty impressive, if not for the bright red fuzzy ear-muffs.

 

"Hey baby, do you come here often?"

Peter startles, and almost drops his phone. He looks up, and snorts when he sees Wade, pulling his ear muffs down to hang around his neck.

"No, but it did hurt when my father was a gardener."

"Beat you with a shovel, did he?"

Peter chuckles as he shakes his head, and Wade notices that's the first time Peter had his usual static-disaster-of-a-hair tamed to a strange but fitting hairdo.

Something tickles his nostrils.

"Got a new aftershave?" he asks, brows furrowed. Who shaves in the evening? Especially when it's someone like Peter, who's doesn't look like he has testosterone to spare.

"No," Peter mutters, his cheeks flushed from the cold. "C'mon, let's find ourselves some good seats."

"Yes, before the hordes of hockey-fans in this neighbourhood will flood the place and we'll have to watch it from the entrance."

Wade follows after Peter, down a dimly lit staircase, through a partly-open door to the right. Wade braces himself for the stares – but no one pays them much mind. A group of men in their thirties cheer and laugh on a couch at the far end. At the tables lined next to the wall, few pairs talk among themselves with an easy chatter. The sounds are warped by a pleasant Jazz music, played in a volume which actually allows people to talk rather than shout.

This is a weird environment to a watch hockey match, but Wade is open to new experiences.

 

Peter sits in the middle of the empty bar stools, a good place between the couch-gang and the door. There are two flat-screen televisions hanging right in front of them, already tuned to the right channel.

"What can I offer you, boys?"

The bartender is an old, bald man, thick in a way which suggests muscles rather than fat, and a friendly-enough face.

"A pint of Molson dry for me," Wade considers kissing the man when he asks if he'd like it bottled or from the tap, choosing the latter.

"And I'd have Cream ale, please."

The bartender regards Peter seriously, eyes stopping to examine the ear-muffs around his neck, and raises a bushy eyebrow spotted with grey.

"Of?"

"Of?" Peter asks back, confused.

The man holds out his hand.

"ID, kid."

Peter doesn't argue, seemingly well used to it – he draws his ID from a worn jeans wallet, and hands it for the bartender's careful examination.

"Shouldn't have shaved." Wade tells him, amused.

"Wouldn't have mattered." Peter shrugs, and follows the movement by tugging off his jacket, revealing an honest-to-god vest. There's no reason for Peter to pull off this look, but he somehow does. Maybe it's something to do with the buttons he seems to favor, or how it appears his shirt is not buttoned all the way up, and when Peter leans forwards to take back his ID, Wade catches a glimpse of his collarbone.  

He snatches Peter's ID from his fingers with ease, inspecting the old passport photograph, ignoring the obligatory " _give it back!_ " and holding Peter back with his hand.

No one's passport photo is flattering, and Peter's no different – his lips are pursed, hair strewn in his regular mess. He's clearly a man who grew into his current (very pleasing) features.

"I see you wore your hipster glasses _before_ it was cool."

Peter tries to take his ID back, protesting loudly – but Wade holds it out of reach, his arm considerably longer.

"Now now Petey, no need to get all worked up! You were such a cute kid!"

"Positively charming." He deadpans. "Can I have it back right now, or should I leave you and the card alone?"

Wade slips him back the card, smirking as the plastic slides on the oak veneer. Peter picks it up and thanks the bartender, who places their drinks on two crisp, bright coasters.

Peter's flushed again, even though it's not uncomfortably hot indoors. The air is a bit stuffy, but Wade's used to it. He allows himself the privilege of taking off his hood, nothing more, while Peter already rolled up his sleeves. It seems the concept of this clothing article is new to him – rather than folding each of the sleeves neatly upwards, they're stuck above his elbows, crumpled back. Wade fingers twitch as he shoves down a long-forgotten impulse from his army-days to straighten them, reaching for the pint instead.  

"Cheers!" He tells Peter as he raises the glass for a toast.

"Cheers." Peter responds as he clinks his pint against Wade's, sipping his drink.

Wade gulps down the cool beer, watching from the corner of his eye as Peter's tongue flicks out to lick the foam that stuck on his upper lip. He's definitely going to need to down an impressive amount of alcohol, the way this night is going.

 

"So, we've got around thirty minutes to burn before the match starts." Wade tells Peter as he surveys the environment for possible entertainment, perking as he finds a decent enough thing.

"I was thinking that maybe –"

"Challenge you to a game of darts!"

They both talk at the same time, and Peter nods.

"Sure, that sounds nice. I haven't actually tried it before."

"You mean _never_?"

"Well, I haven't –" Peter stops. "Yeah, never."

"Are you ready for certain defeat and utter humiliation?"

"Cocky, aren't we?" Peter mocks, and Wade just-barely stops himself from spitting an innuendo in response.

"First rule – loser–- that's going to be you – buys first round."

"Don't be so sure. I'm a quick learner."

Wade is still pretty sure.

They carry their drinks to the edge of the bar, and Wade pulls open the dartboard, hanging not that far off the door. Picking the arrows, he hands Peter the purple ones and keeps the reds to himself.

"So what do I do? Try to hit it at the center?"

"That's one way to play it. Sure, why not."

"You mean there's more than _one way_?"

Wade spends several minutes explaining Peter about the game, before they actually play against each other.

 

"Bullseye!"

Wade turns sharply.

"Where!" he snaps at Peter, moving to stand before him as he pushes him against the bar.

"Wade? What's wrong?"

"OH. Oh. You meant the dart. The dart. Hitting the target. Bullseye." Wade backs off, scratching his neck.

"What else?"

"Never mind, forget it – now, back to the ass-kicking my foot was delivering to your behind…"

 

The darts prove fun enough. Wade's glass quickly drains as he teaches Peter the right way to hold the dart and how to use his entire shoulder when he throws. He gets to show off as Peter challenges his abilities and dares him to hit certain parts – and it's fun to see years of experience as a sharpshooter finally paying off.

Wade belatedly notices some men watching him shoot – Peter offers them a match, and they only flinch slightly when they get to see Wade's face.

With Peter as his teammate and the experience of hundreds of darts-games beneath the other pair's belts, the match is pretty balanced out, Peter and Wade only winning by a smidge. The men buy Wade his second round, while Peter still nurses his warming pint, before they head out, probably to visit another bar around.

Peter and Wade walk back just in time to watch the players lining up.

From there on, Wade is pretty much lost to the world around him. He forgot to ask who's Peter rooting for, but that doesn't matter, because the official is a litTLE PIECE OF SHIT WHO THE HELL GAVE HIM THE QUALIFICATION TO MAKE ANY DECISIONS THE MAN OBVIOUSLY CAN'T TIE HIS OWN SHOELACES AND SUFFERS FROM CATARACT –

Wade is honestly enjoying himself. No one bothers him about his loud cussing, the beer is good and a bowl of pretzels materialized somewhere during the match. Peter is sitting beside him, leaning on the bar, and whenever there's a play-rerun Wade can glimpse how the light from the screen plays across his face.

 

He should've known better than this.

Nothing good ever happens on Mondays.

 

 

"Well what do you know," there's a drawl directly behind them, "if it ain't little Peter Puffer."

Peter stiffens in his seat.

"How's it going, Parker? Sucked any good ones lately?"

Wade and Peter both turn. The speaker is a tall cocky looking man. He could've been considered handsome if not for the fact he wears the exact same expression that's printed next to the word _douchebag_ in the dictionary.

Behind him, two grown men who act like typical brainless goons chuckle stupidly. Wade eyes them – they're both taller than him, and have more muscles – the one on the right is definitely on steroids, judging by his acne, and the one of the left stands with his feet parallel to one another, both too close – how can anyone think he looks threatening while having this posture is a mystery. 

 

"Flash," Peter acknowledges, his voice tight. "I see a decade hasn't helped you expand your very limited vocabulary."

"And who's that? That's priceless, Parker! Started picking fellow fags in pick-up bars for burn victims?"

"Don't call him that." Peter snaps back. He's tiny compared to his acquaintance.

"Parker, if you really needed dick that bad, all you had to so was as -"

"If you finish that sentence," Wade stands, eyes blazing, "you will walk out of this fine establishment with three missing teeth."

The Jazz music carries on, but the pleasant chatter that floated around slowly dies out.

"Kitty got claws, don't you, faggot."

"Okay," a muscle ticks beneath Wade's right eye. "We're going to make that _crawl_ out of this bar with some missing teeth, I can't guarantee an accurate number."

"Wade." Peter says quietly, putting his hand against Wade's arm. "Ignore him. Come on, let's just go, we can watch –"

Wade shakes him off.

 

Flash snorts. Wade doesn't like his smug bastard face.

"You think yourself some tough shot, Tinkerbell? Listen to your boyfriend, beat it. We don't need a couple of fairies around here."

Wade takes a deep breath. That never helped calming him down, and it doesn't help him now.

Wade can do it. He can be the better man, just like in the story books.

 

"Look, Flashlight, was it? You're interrupting my special time with Petey here, who's under the impression I'm some sort of a cat-Jesus or something. Truth is? I'm a crazy son of a bitch, and as much as I'd like to slam your face into this table – and believe me, I would _really_ like that, your face screams privileged high-school jock _loser_ who can't seem to get used to real life – I'm going to offer you the chance to walk away right now, no hard feelings, no missing teeth."

Flash bristles and steps up, invading into Wade's personal space. The guys behind him crack their knuckles in a way he supposes they consider intimidating, but just make Wade want to tell them how unhealthy it is for their ageing joints.

"You think some tough talk would send me running off to mommy? As if, scar-face. I ain't scared of no fruity pillow biter."

Wade shrugs his shoulders. This guy was annoying, and Peter can't tell him he didn't try.

"Have it your way."

 

He smashes his mostly empty beer mug against the steroid-goon's face, and helps the other one with his posture as he sweeps him off his feet with a round kick to his knees. He turns to Flash, who doesn't look so cocky anymore, and slams his boot against the man's knee hard enough to hear as it snaps. He catches Flash's head mid-fall and crashes it against a nearby table with his hand, and holds.

" _WADE_!" Peter shrieks, "Wade! What are you doing! Let him go!"

"Never liked DC." Wade snarls down. "If you ever so much _breathe_ on Peter Parker again, I will find you, and I will have you experience things that'll make the events taking place in NBC's Hannibal seem fitting for the Saturday Morning Cartoons."

He lets him go and the man slides down to the floor like a wobbly noodle.

 

People are looking. Wade throws couple of crumpled bills towards the bar, and makes sure to step on a hand on his way out, feeling the bones creak and break beneath his sole.

He's a decent distance from the bar before he hears Peter calling him, turning to see him jogging towards him.

"Wade! What the hell!"

"What."

Peter tries to talk, still slightly out of breath, but can't seem to bring himself to make sense. He stutters and gestures wildly with his arms. Wade doesn't understand what he's fussing about.

"I don't understand what you're fussing about, Petey."

"Wade!" Peter eyes go unbelievingly wide. "You broke his kneecap!"

"Sure sounded like I did."

"You gave him a concussion."

"Maybe it would stir up something in his brain that would help with his prehistoric views."

"You assaulted a guy!"

"I would consider it 'kicked his ass'-"

"Just because he threw some slurs around? His knee, Wade. I think he's going to need a surgery! What's gotten into you!"

Wade is confused and a bit upset. "Petey, that guy was a douche. I tried to play nice, I asked him to stop – with my mouth, using words. I warned him not to continue, and he didn't listen."

Peter doesn't seem to be grasping his very logical argument.

"The person I saw assaulting Flash at the bar wasn't _you_ , Wade. That's… that's just not like you at all.

 

 

There are crucial moments in every person's life. Some of them don't seem very important as they occur, some of them do. Those moments are engraved into memory as waymarks in the path your life has taken.

Thus far, Wade had four of those moments:

The first one happens when Wade is six. He offers Sara Campbell a beautiful daisy, because he likes her bright yellow hair. She bursts out laughing.

 

The second one happens when Wade is eleven. He comes back home from school to find his mother lying in her own puke in the living room. Wade helps her up, undresses her and carries her to the shower.

"I wish I had an abortion," she tells him with a lopsided grin as he soaps her greasy hair. "I wish I never had you, _you shitty little monster_."

Wade dries her up, dresses her in her pajamas and tucks her into bed.

He then goes to find the mop to clean up the vomit. When his hand grasps the wooden handle, he realises his mother meant each and every word.

 

The third one happens when Wade is in his twenties, during a routine mission, not different than any other.

Wade shoots a man and watches as his head explodes. The gray matter splatters in the air and Wade sees the beautiful chaotic pattern forming as if everything is happening in slow motion - and realises this is what he wants to do for the rest of his life. This is what he really loves. This is what brings him the closest he can get to actual happiness.

 

The fourth one happens somewhere along Project X. This memory is locked under a bolted adamantium safe in a remote corner of his mind, and he never dares to approach it.

 

 

This is the fifth moment.

The moment Wade gets his painful, obligatory wake-up call.

 

Peter Parker is a great guy.

He's kind hearted, funny and attractive. He texts Wade cute cat pictures in the mornings and asks him how his day has been. He doesn't flinch when he sees Wade's face and he doesn't pity him or pokes his nose where he shouldn't. He's not intimidated by Wade and won't let him off the hook if he thinks he's wrong.

(He never told Wade to shut up.)

 

Peter Parker doesn't know what Wade Wilson does for a living.

Peter doesn't know that Wade likes it when he hurts other people. He likes to feel fingernails scratching desperately at his gloves as he chokes someone to death. He enjoys breathing in the smell of blood and the feeling of crunching bones beneath his heavy boots. He thrives on the sensation that passes through the knife when he slices open someone's skin.

 

Peter Parker doesn't know who Wade Wilson is, actually. They spent so much time on each other, but Peter doesn't know him at all.

 

"That's exactly the type of person I am." Wade says harshly, meeting Peter's wide eyes as his chest constricts painfully. "You think I'm some kind of Mother Teresa because I picked up this one stupid cat? Newsflash, _sunshine_! I'm a nasty asshole and I've broken arms over lesser things than that homophobic bullcrap this idiot just pulled. The only reason I haven’t stabbed him in the fucking eye was because I thought it would ruin our evening, and so much for that."

"Wade –"

"We're done here, _Dr. Parker_ ," He spits the name like a curse. "Get yourself a unicorn, grab the horn and shove it right into your righteous ass."

 

 

If this was one of those movies, that'd be the climax-point – Wade would turn to walk away, and Peter would call for him to wait, catch his hand and confess his undying love that spurred within him from the moment they've first met. They'd kiss and make up and something cheesy would play in the background.

 

When Wade risks a glance above his shoulder, Peter's not even there anymore.

(Roll credits.)

*

Walking should have helped Wade to release some of the steam, but the time he spent left alone with his thoughts proves to be poisonous. His hands shake when he steps into his apartment. The boxes jeer at him and scratching his ears bloody doesn't make them shut up.

 

A loud, distressed yowl cuts through his disorientation.

 The water fountain is dashed to pieces across the living room floor, heavy chunks of it still quivering in small puddles between the couch and the table.

 

"No."

He leaps to his hands and knees, but he already understands – beneath the couch, Fluffy is huddled into herself, her side bleeding.

When she sees Wade, she tucks her ears against her head and _hisses_.  

Wade doesn't know what to do.

"Baby-girl," he tries to coax at her, using everything he's got to concentrate at the present events as his head rings, "Fluffy. Come out of there, you're too old for hide and seek."

Fluffy scampers backwards. His hand reaches out - and she spits at him, thin fangs bared.

**Like father, like son.**

The remark cuts through all the others. 

 

 

Wade goes to bed and shoots himself in the head.

*

 

The world has been painted red.

Neurons rearranging, it takes Wade an unknown stretch of time to process his sensory input.

His ears come back online to a familiar voice, his skin processes a familiar weight.

Wade opens his eyes to see Fluffy sitting on his chest, sounding miserable. As soon as she notices he's awake, she starts screaming like he had never heard before.

Her naked skin is covered in blood.

 

He tries not to panic. He tries harder when he remembers he can't call Peter, having burnt that bridge to the ground.  

"Shhh," he tries, "you're okay, everything's okay, Fluffy."

She doesn't stop as he carries her to the bathroom – thinks better of it – and then to the sink in the kitchen. He uses a towel to scrub her skin clean as gently as he can.

There's so much blood.

Luckily, most of it turns out to be his.

 

He towels her dry to find but a small cut to her side, no shreds stuck in her pink soft paws.

Wade slowly unlocks his knees and crumbles to the floor, Fluffy pressed close to his chest. They sit down together in the kitchen, and the cat – she's crying, and Wade knows he's worse than the lowest piece of trash on the face of the earth.

 

The ceramic lovebirds stare blankly back at him from under the coffee table.

*

No one wants to work at Christmas. Even mercenaries. Deadpool finds a job within the day, leaving Fluffy in the trusty hands of Bob, under the promise that "if that thing isn't alive by the time I get back – you're not going to be alive, either."

 

It's even a vacation, since Deadpool gets to spend his holidays in his favorite country – Mexico.

New Year's is spent in a stake out, and the day after has a satisfying ending, as he shoots his target (one of those Mexican drug-lords) cleanly between the eyes.

It gets better as it turns out his target has been moonlighting – trying his hand at human trafficking to increase his meager income.

 

Since he's out of bullets, he decides to be original and challenge himself by using a machete he picked somewhere along the way. Deadpool already got the job done, so he's got time to kill. He rounds up all the guards – and since he doesn't have that much rope – keeps them in place by cutting their Achilles tendons.

When they're all together like a big happy family, he lies them down in a circle, and spins an empty tequila bottle he found lying around to decide which penis is getting shoved into which throat.

Deadpool is as happy as a clam (who's just been cut open and had its pearl taken).

 

Next he checks out all the rooms, looking for drugs or diamonds or Bengal tigers, but all he finds are battered-looking women, with black eyes and bruised lips. He checks the bunker too, but it's just three more of them.

Couple of hours and many broken locks later, Deadpool is standing outside a bullet-ridden building along with nineteen women.

 

" _Thank you_ ," one of them croaks to him at Russian, and Wade pretends he doesn't understand her as he throws the bloody machete next to her bare feet.

*****

Fluffy is thinner when he comes back home.

Bob stammers things about a lost apatite and the front door, but Wade shoots at his general direction and he quickly takes his leave.

They sit on his bed and she eats from his hand, lapping the canned food (the one with the high calorie count) he still kept at his pantry. 

They stay in bed all day. Wade carries her everywhere with him, feeling her boney spine against his arm, and she just leans against him.

He presses a kiss to her head.

"Your hunger strike worked. I'm back. Don't pull that shit again, we don't have anyone to call now."

She looks up at him with her small wrinkled face.

"I'm sorry baby-girl. Papa isn't going anywhere now, he's not going to ever leave you alone again."

Wade swallows something down.

"I know you deserve bet– "

Fluffy gently rests her paw against his mouth.

He smiles at her fondly.

"If you're trying to give me Toxoplasmosis with your shit-covered-paws, it's not gonna work, you little pest."

She tucks her head under his chin.

"We're stuck together, you and I. You're stuck with me until you die."

*

There are 37 new voice messages waiting for Wade.

 

He used a disposable phone for the mission and didn't touch regular phone when tending to Fluffy those past few days.

 

His voice mail is filled with Peter's voice.

After deleting the first seven short 'call-me's, and the ten 'please call me back's, and two 'please pick up, I'm worried about you's, and a bunch of 'I'm really sorry, Wade, please, you don't have to call, just send me a text to know you're okay, just–' and one 'please Wade, I'm begging you –'

 

 

Wade's brain wants to pulverize the device.

Wade's thumb presses redial.

 

"WADE?" Peter answers in an instant. "Brian, _I've got to take this_ , you deal with Mr. Tucker – Wade, you there?"

"Yes." He answers curtly.

"Jesus, Wade! I was so worried. Where have you been?!"

"What is it to you?" He answers crudely.

"Are you kidding me now? Wade! I haven't heard from you for _three weeks_! You could've been lying dying in a ditch somewhere!"

"Now you're just been overdramatic –"

"Wade," Peter says, and his voice trembles. "I thought you were _dead_."

The words stir a place deep within him, and a tiny bit of guilt creeps out to cling into the innards of Wade's throat.

"Didn't know you cared so much," Wade means for it to sting, but it comes off more as a pathetic confession.

" _Of course_ I care about you, Wade." Peter takes a deep breath, and Wade braces himself for –

"I'm sorry, Wade."

"... What?"

"I'm sorry about how I've reacted the other night." He takes Wade's stunned silence as a sign to carry on. "I didn't think how you must have been feeling when…. I didn't consider –" He pauses like he knows he's stepping into a minefield. "That you're like Romeo"

"I didn't molest any thirteen year olds lately so I don't know what you're implying here –"

"The dog you choked." Peter clarifies.

"You mean _secured_ ," Wade corrects him, "while you were busy acting like a pansy."

"What I mean, is like someone that survived under difficult circumstances which were beyond his control, but made an effort to move on, even if he sometimes relapses." That time they spent apart was clearly enough for Peter to memorize an entire speech by heart.

"Wade. I'm not dense. I knew that you had some sort of a tendency towards violence when I saw you holding down a dog that weighs one hundred and eighty pounds which was bred to fight against lions and trying to bite off your head, grinning like it's Christmas in July.

"But I've also seen the guy who kept a cat he didn't like and had no responsibility for – the guy that spent his money and his time – most people would've thrown Fluffy to whoever they could, or just left her on the clinic's doorstep." Peter takes a deep breath.

"Do you know how I've gotten Hades?" He asks, sounding drained. "His owners came and asked me to put him down – _to kill their cat of eleven years_ _who could still live to double his years_ – when they found out he caught FIV because of their decision to let him explore the great outdoors unsupervised and uncastrated.

"I understand you've got issues, Wade. I may not be _a real doctor_ ," the term is laced with vitriol, "but I do happen to have a medical degree. I know your scarring isn't a bad case of Eczema or Psoriasis."

 

( _I know someone hurt you_ , he doesn't need to say).

Peter pauses to swallow. Wade is so close to hang up the phone in Peter's face and shoot the damn device, but Fluffy is sitting on his left hand and he can't bring himself to move her. She still looks so fragile.

"So I didn't have the right to judge the way you reacted, when Flash came up to you the way he did. I don't know everything there is to know about you," he hesitates.

"But I'd like to."

"You really wouldn't." Wade mouth operates instead of his brain, still processing Peter's lengthy dissection of his personality.

"Really now," Peter replies dryly. "I sure like it when other people make the calls about what I want. Listen, Wade. I get it if you're not into me; you won’t be the first to pass a guy that talks about the discovery of a new type of tape worm like it's the new IPhone. Not interested? That's fine, and I can handle it – but don't make that about me."

He pauses. It feels significant. Wade can hear him swallowing again.

"Wade – _this is like high-school all over again_ ," Peter groans.

"Wade, can I buy you coffee? Not– not like a in the supermarket, but– to go out for coffee– as in a date. I know this nice Café –"

"No." Wade cuts him off, realises how it might sound, and quickly amends.

"No for the coffee. Cafés are full of bullshit, I'm not getting a fucking _salad_ , I'm a growing boy! If you want to feed me buy me real food.

If you want to seduce me, Peter Parker, take me out to Taco-Bell."

*

The seduction works.

(Tacos actually made excellent aphrodisiac. Who knew?)

They stumble blindly into Wade's apartment, not bothering with the lights. Peter latches onto him, and at some point just throws himself at Wade, wrapping his legs around him and – _oh._ Wade carries him effortlessly, one hand on his firm ass and one supporting his back, feeling Peter shuddering against him while toeing off his sneakers with his feet.

 

"So strong…" Peter groans into his mouth as he runs his hands beneath Wade's shirt and over his back. "I knew it, I knew that behind that baggy clothing –" he pants "– god, your latissimus dorsi –" his hands travel upwards "– your rhomboids..." he whimpers, but Wade has heard enough whimpering in his life so he knows it's not the bad kind.

"We haven't even reached second base and you're already talking gibberish, Petey. I'm just that good."

Peter snorts against his lips, before rising to bite at his earlobe.

"Bedroom." He jabs his heels at Wade's sides.

"Mush!"

 

Wade complies, shutting the bedroom's door with his foot.

The cat, for once, is blissfully silent.

*

Wade can't clearly recall the last time he has to face the dreadful 'Morning After'. He lets himself have a few minutes of grace. The sheets still smell like cum and Peter and synthetic vanilla from the lube. He forces himself to pad out of his room.

There's the sound of the toilet flushing, followed by "what happened to your sink? It looks like someone took a hammer and just went batshit in here."

"Pipes. Exploding Pipes. Winter. Old plumbing system. Very old. Ancient. Historic. Older than 'knock knock' jokes and time itself."

"Huh," Peter considers this as he washes his hands under the tap of the bathtub. "Does your landlord know about this? You should contact them, there's probably a part of the contract that deals with –"

"It's fine."

Awkwardness fills the air around them as Peter wipes his hands dry against his boxers. The same boxers Wade pulled down with his teeth not twelve hours ago.

"Well, that's –" Peter stutters as he steps out to the hall, not meeting his eyes. "That had been – um, you know – and –"

 

Wade isn't disappointed. He might have had Peter's cock in his ass, but that doesn't score him any special brownie-points. He has nothing to complain about, really. He had tacos and awesome sex both in the same night, and maybe he earned himself a place in Peter's booty-calls-phonebook (the 32th sounds dignified).

He's not feeling bitter at all as he nods.

"Yeah –"

"Guess I should – " Peter starts, but is cut off by the sounds of someone choking.

They both turn just in time to see Fluffy throwing up all over Peter's sneakers. She coughs a few more times, before licking her lips and sauntering off.

 

Peter clears his throat.

"Guess I should stick around some more, don't you think? Looks like Fluffy might need a professional around. Could be a gastric dilatation-volvulus, or bowel obstruction or –"

"Guess you should."

At Wade's approval, the tension around them unwinds. Peter walks past Wade to explore the living room.

 

"What's this? _Actual_ DVDs?" he sounds amazed.

"You can pick something – if you'd like, if you don't have anywhere to be or –"

"Aristocats?"

"Why not," Wade says, nonchalant (he is definitely not envisioning wedding invitations in his head, or debating between ivory and cream).

 

Halfway throughout the movie, after Peter recited complete dialogues and sang along Thomas O'Malley unashamedly with a broken pitch, his head in Wade's lap, Wade decides to do the reality check himself this time, since this is turning to be too good to be true. There are no cute guys who are kind hearted, smart, let him be the little spoon, give awesome blowjobs _AND_ know Disney songs by heart.

 

He looks down to his lap.

"I wear dresses."

Peter turns his head to look at him.

"Lingerie, too." 

Peter frowns.

 

"You don't stop movies in the middle, Wade." He chides. "You can show me after." He turns back to watch the three kittens deliver an inaccurate imitation of a train, gleefully making his own ridiculous version of the sound.

 

 

 

Fluffy spends the rest of the day well and thoroughly stoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback would be greatly appreciated :)  
> *  
> [SURPRISE BONUS](http://pinkeyedrabbbit.tumblr.com/post/92727632019/my-lovely-friend-capsing-wrote-this-amazing#notes)  
> *  
> Note - blue and red are not complementary colours, despite what Deadpool texted; it's blue/orange and red/green. Thanks to [ TeddyLaCroix ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero/pseuds/TeddyLaCroix) that has brought it to my attention!  
> *  
> [NOW WITH AMAZING ART PIECE OF WADE AND FLUFFY,](http://fanartdrawer.tumblr.com/post/99078642678/stress-relief-doodle-thing-of-wade-a-sphynx-and-a) by the most-talented [Besteck](http://besteck.tumblr.com/). ❤  
> *  
> NOW WITH EVEN MORE INCREDIBLE ART, OF [ DR. PARKER](https://i.imgur.com/fpELyJO.png) AND OF [PETER AND WADE (AND FLUFFY AND ADORABLENESS)](https://i.imgur.com/yafTPF9.png), brought to you by the marvelous [madidrawsthings](http://madidrawsthings.tumblr.com/).❤  
> *  
> I'd like to add a personal note about the choices I've made regarding the animals represented in this story (referring to dogs but it's true to any group of companion animals). 
> 
> There are four main groups of dogs who are the least likely to be rehomed (meaning much more likely to be put down) –  
> 1\. Elderly dogs  
> 2\. Disabled dogs (Deaf/Blind/Missing a limb or their eyes/Chronically ill)  
> 3\. Black dogs (and if they're not pocket-sized the odds drop even more)  
> 4\. "Dangerous Breeds" (A myth currently starring Amstaffs, Pitbulls, Rotties etc) 
> 
> Those dogs are not damaged.  
> They are not less worthy of love.


End file.
